Out On The Farm
by Loafer
Summary: Carlton's decision to take time off and help out an old friend has an unexpected effect on Juliet. LASSIET. FICTION.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: don't own nothin'. Just stealing Steve Franks' characters and having my way with them.  
**Rating**: T  
**Summary**: Carlton's decision to help out an old friend gets Juliet's attention. Lassiet FICTION. Been too long since I felt motivated, and what finally did it was seeing TimO in all his bearded glory in his _Supernatural_ episode last month. :: Set early during S6 after "True Grits." References to Shules and Carlowe. Probably just a two-shot, maybe three. Here's shot one!

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The funny thing was, he _wasn't_ running away.

It was true he and Juliet had argued, and it had been pretty bad, but it hadn't been nearly as bad as the argument they were _going_ to have some day, the inevitable building-for-years set-to which would end their partnership forever. He knew it would happen, because even though he was in his own way mellowing about Spencer, he was finding it harder to tolerate Juliet's acceptance of how Spencer treated her.

Which wasn't any of his business… except that it often took place in his presence, and he had to pretend to ignore it, to not feel the hurt he could usually see in her features, in the set of her shoulders, in her quiet tone. And he hadn't been so distracted by Marlowe that he couldn't see it especially clearly during the re-investigation of the Thane Woodson case, when Spencer was completely insulting about how he intended to prove Juliet had wronged his client and only he could 'fix it.'

Friday afternoon near quitting time, she got off the phone with Spencer after a conversation where he apparently steamrolled over her request to go to a new and slightly upscale restaurant despite having promised to take her there, and when Carlton rolled his eyes at her she snapped at him, so he snapped back that the eyeroll was about her caving in to Spencer again and again, and she said he didn't exactly have a better track record with relationships—which would have been true even if he _hadn't_ just been dumped by the still-incarcerated Marlowe for her lawyer—and he asked if _she_ did, given the men she'd chosen over the years, and she demanded to know what kind of man he thought she should be with if he knew so damn much, and he was _about_ to grind out that he himself at his worst would be better than most of the men she'd dated (except it wasn't true, really; Scott Seaver had been a good guy and even Declan Rand was decent and considerate for a fraud) when he caught himself short, but Juliet wasn't having any of that, and followed him out to the parking lot and went on snapping, saying a lot of things she didn't exactly need to point out about his inflexibility and bad attitude and general mistrust of people and how he might—might—and she did mean _might_—have the very slimmest of miniscule chances at being a quasi-normal person if he'd just keep his yap shut once in a while and not assume the worst of everyone. When he retorted that giving people too many chances meant that once again she'd be spending a Friday night at Taco Billy-Bob's instead of a nice restaurant with silverware in place of sporks and moist towelettes, she slammed him with a resounding "you're a jerk!" and stomped off, and he got in his Fusion and roared home himself.

But it wasn't that _bad_.

Not bad enough to make him want to run away, chuck it all, ditch his job or God forbid, _her_.

He knew he wouldn't have her in his life forever (and had briefly believed, during the Marlowe phase, that he could get over her and simply be a friend and partner), but the only event which would get him to clear out of Juliet's life completely—if not flat-out leave the state—was the horrifying prospect of her marriage to Spencer.

Made him shudder every time he considered it. He was strong, but not _that_ strong.

So the fight wasn't any reason to run away. It was pure coincidence that Hank Mendel called him on Saturday afternoon and asked for help.

Carlton figured Juliet would be cold to him come Monday but eventually she'd thaw, especially if he brought her some Starbucks and let her drive the Vic, and even if she didn't thaw and went to the Chief and said she absolutely could not work another day with her asshat partner, she'd probably change her mind before the Chief (if she even agreed) could separate them. Juliet was, after all, loyal, and by God, if she could tolerate Spencer aggravating her repeatedly, surely forgiving _him_ one more time was likely.

It'd be a hard week, but it would get better.

But the phone rang and changed everything.

Hank and his Miss Annie (he still called her that, even though now she was technically _Mrs_. Annie) were going off to tour Australia for six weeks. He was hoping Carlton could find someone to 'farm-sit' the property he'd acquired after giving up Old Sonora, someone who could maybe look after the horses, mend a bit of fence, mow a bit of grass, and generally keep the place occupied. Oh, and pick up the mail and bring in the paper. But it had to be someone who liked solitude, because the house and land were out in the middle of nowhere, although cell phone service was pretty good if you liked that sort of thing (Hank didn't, but Miss Annie did).

Carlton said he'd ask around and call him back, even though he had no intention of asking around, because all he really wanted was five minutes to explore the thought which popped into his head the moment he heard Hank's question.

The thought was… _why not me?_

Answered by… _you can't take that much time off from work._

Followed by… _why not? Other people do. I have over a year's worth of leave accrued._

Answered by… _you've _never_ taken that much time off work. _

He thought about it. There were a lot of days he didn't want to go to work—not because of criminals but because of civilians—but he always told himself to suck it up, man up, toughen up and get his damned ass in the car.

And this wouldn't really be a vacation per se: sounded like he'd stay pretty busy with Hank's list of chores.

_So why shouldn't I do this? This one time? For Hank?_

_For me?_

And…

And…?

There seemed to be no riposte, so he called Hank back. He said, "Mind if I do it?"

He could hear Hank's smile. "Thought you'd need more than three minutes, son."

By Monday morning he had half-forgotten Juliet's probable chill; he was more concerned about how Karen Vick would respond to his request, because he'd made up his mind that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

When he said calmly, "I'd like to take six weeks off, starting two weeks from now," Karen had just set her coffee down on the desk, which was fortunate, because judging by her expression, she might have dropped it in shock.

"You'd like to do _what_, starting _when_?"

"Take six weeks off, starting the thirteenth."

Karen blinked.

He waited. He could wait a long time.

She blinked again. "I have to say no."

"You can't say no."

"I have to say no, Carlton, because you're my head detective and six weeks is a hell of a long time without a damned good reason."

"You're always telling me to take time off."

"A day or two, here and there!"

"I have over a year's leave accumulated."

"Because you never take a day off!"

He refrained from the eye roll which had gotten him in trouble with Juliet.

"Chief. I need this."

"Well, I need you here to run the squad! You want a week, fine, take a week. Or if you _have_ to have six, we'll schedule it for a few months from now when we're prepared for it. But you can't—"

"It has to be now. It's for my friend Hank Mendel."

For a moment, she softened. But only a moment. "I'm sorry. It's just too much time, and not enough notice."

"Six weeks," he insisted. "Starting the thirteenth. Between now and then I'll tie up every loose end I've got and I'll bring O'Hara up to speed on everything. She'll be an excellent interim head detective and it'll give her something else for her resume. And it's not like I'm leaving the country, you know. I'll be less than two hours away and reachable by phone. Think of it as me being on an extended undercover assignment."

_Yeah, like that would happen._

"Carlton…"

"Karen," he pressed. "When have I ever asked for anything like this?"

He had her. She hated that he was right, but he had her. He tried not to look smug as she signed off on it, but her glare made it clear he needed to try harder.

Juliet was snippy when she came in, but now _he_ was in a good mood, and this plus him handing her a pre-emptive venti startled her so much that she was briefly silenced.

Half a cup later, she came to his desk and muttered thanks.

"No problem, partner," he said cheerfully (yes, cheerfully), while she glanced down at his open day planner. He had been rescheduling some appointments, and she obviously noted that this sort of calendar-altering was going on.

But since she wasn't quite done being mad at him, she asked no questions. She was turning away when he asked her to sit down.

"Starting Monday the thirteenth, you'll be the interim head detective for six weeks," he began.

Her lovely blue eyes widened.

"Before I leave I'll go over my open cases with you and—"

"Six _weeks_? Where are you going to be?"

"Farm-sitting for Hank Mendel. You'll have to submit the monthly report but I'll show you how to do the quarterly—"

"Farm-sitting? For _six weeks_? When?"

"The thirteenth," he repeated. "He and Miss Annie are going to Australia."

"How long have you known about this?" She sounded anxious.

"He asked me this weekend. Now, you're going to have to take lead on the Harper case. I know you have a problem with the—"

"Carlton!" she interrupted, somewhere between upset and torked off.

"_What_?"

He couldn't read the exact nuance of her expression now. She seemed unable to decide what she wanted to say, and it was obvious that whatever she chose would be angry and involve his death and/or dismemberment.

Juliet stared at him for a long time, those big dark blue eyes fixed on his as her internal struggle raged on.

"O'Hara," he began carefully. "You can call me any time you need me. Not that you're going to need me. And it's only six—"

With a sound of helpless rage, she threw her hands up in the air and stalked back to her desk.

That was the state of affairs for most of the week. He kept his word to the Chief by tying up loose ends and writing up notes for Juliet which she'd probably burn as soon as he left the station that last day, and while he was thus engaged, Juliet stayed angry.

At least he assumed it was anger. He wasn't sure what else it could be. Normally she didn't pitch a fit when she had to pick up slack for anyone, but given that she'd been mad at him to start with, maybe it wasn't that much of a stretch to cast a wider net of pissed-off-ness.

She was short with Spencer when he came around, and it seemed to Carlton—not that he minded one bit—that she moved their encounters out of his sight and hearing. It also seemed to Carlton that when she would return to her desk, she was exasperated with Spencer instead of him, but within moments she'd return to scowling in his direction.

During the second week, he let his curiosity get the upper hand.

"You gonna tell me _why_ you're so mad at me?"

Juliet looked up from her computer screen, frowning and already annoyed. "What?"

"Specifically. I know you were mad before because we argued, but are you still mad about that, or are you mad about me taking a vacation, or is it both? Or it is something else I don't even know about?"

"I'm not mad that you're taking a vacation. Why would I be mad about that?"

"I don't know," Carlton said patiently, "except that maybe you think I'm dumping extra work on you."

"I don't think that," she snapped. "Work is work and it's not like I can do more than I can do anyway. If I didn't like the work we do I wouldn't be a cop."

He sipped from his coffee mug, trying again to sift through the expressions on her face. "Then you're still mad about the argument."

"I am not." Juliet got up with her own mug and turned away.

"Fine." He headed off, but she zipped out into the wide hall to stop him. "What?"

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear impatiently. "Why are you taking this time off now?"

It was Carlton's turn to frown. "Because… Hank _needs_ me now."

"No, I don't mean that. Look, you don't take leave. You usually have to be medically sidelined to take more than fifteen minutes off. Any other time you'd have told him you couldn't do it, not for six weeks anyway. So why now?"

"Because… Hank needs me _now_," he repeated. "The guy he had lined up broke his leg. It was a last-minute thing."

"Carlton. Why did you, of all people, say yes to six weeks away from me… I mean, your job?"

He felt the slightest of prickles as her amendment sank in. "It's got nothing to do with you."

She brandished her empty mug as if she'd like to hit him with it. "You can't lie to me."

Now he was annoyed—the prickling receding. "Why not? Spencer does."

"That's not what I mean. You're my _partner_. I _know_ you."

"He's your _boyfriend_. You know _him_. If he gets to lie to you, why can't I?"

Juliet drew in a breath, her cheeks flushed. "Well, irrespective of the point where you're agreeing you're lying to me, that's still not what I mean! I mean I can _tell_ when you're lying, Carlton. I know you!"

"Well, you ought to be able to tell when _he's_ lying. Everyone else can."

Oh, she wanted to kill him now. It radiated off of her in palpable waves. _Good job, Lassiter_.

"Enough about Shawn. I know we've had our rough patches—and yes I saw that eye roll—but we've been through too much for you to just stonewall me like this."

"I'm not stonewalling you! I'm taking a long overdue vacation so I can help Hank out. I need a break and I know everyone else does too. What the hell do you think I'm lying about?"

For a few moments—breathing unevenly—she only stared at him, doing that deciding-what-to-say thing he was beginning to know so well.

"About whether you're coming back."

The prickling returned as he registered the flat weight of her words.

"Of course I'm coming back."

Hell yeah he was coming back. He wasn't sure now what he was coming back _to_, and the prickling was hinting that she might very well have reached the ultimate limit of her patience with him, but not coming back to her… to _work_, rather… was not an option.

Still she searched him. "Carlton."

"O'Hara, I'm coming back. I have a car payment and a mortgage and I'm not even half-done with the SBPD yet."

"Then what are you lying about?"

"I'm not lying about anything!" Irritation returned. "I'm _not_ Spencer. You can trust what _I _say."

Juliet stalked off.

Probably not his wisest choice of retorts.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He packed up his things on Friday night, his mind half on Juliet's behavior the past few days. She didn't talk to him much, but she no longer seemed angry… more puzzled and hurt. He caught her gazing at him more than once and she always flushed and looked away.

Figuring out the problem would have to wait. If she was still his partner when he came back, they could start from there. If she wasn't, he'd… he'd think about that later .

Would she ask for a new partner?

Well, clearly their fight had been preying on her mind more than he'd expected. Nothing he could do about that, and short of apologizing for being a jerk, neither of them had any need to 'take back' the words they'd said: she was right about him being too distrusting—and a jerk—and he was right that she let Spencer treat her like a groupie rather than a girlfriend.

Maybe she'd transfer out.

Carlton felt a wash of fear. Hurt.

No… well, maybe she _would_.

It wasn't as if he'd ever been able to predict a woman's behavior with any success, and she was more than sharp enough to have figured out that continuing her relationship with Spencer was always going to cause friction between the two of them, even if he successfully kept his feelings for her under wraps forever.

Juliet wasn't going to subject herself to that sort of stress indefinitely—their jobs were hard enough—and she wouldn't be the first person who chose a personal relationship (no matter how screwed up) over a mere work relationship.

"Forget it," he told the room, and zipped up the suitcase. Six weeks on the farm was what he needed. By the time he returned, maybe he'd have had his own epiphanies about how to deal with the problem of his rickety partnership.

Yeah. It could happen.

Be convenient if he stopped loving her while he was gone, too.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet's GPS, and the address she'd hunted down for Hank Mendel's farm, were guiding her out of Santa Barbara ever closer to Carlton.

She needed to see him—to talk to him—and waiting until his return in two weeks wasn't going to work. The past month had been hard enough, and she was done toughing it out.

The sky was gray and heavy—promising only more of the same—and she wasn't sure what kind of cosmic message she was supposed to draw from that, but the green meadows and trees countered the foreboding slate above, and she _was_ sure about the message therein: _keep going_.

The day they fought, six weeks ago, she'd gone home utterly furious with him, which turned to fury at herself and then quickly to fury at Shawn, and for a good hour she was furious with all three of them until the fever of fury broke (after a few glasses of wine) and she was able to think clearly.

When Shawn showed up so she could take the two of them over to Taco Inferno, she told him she'd changed her mind. He was aghast. She pointed out that he'd agreed to take her to Cache, and had changed his mind about honoring the promise, and while she'd given in at first she now realized she was free to change her mind as well, since she'd rather go to Cache after all, _as planned_.

Shawn said reasonably that he'd already canceled the reservation and so it was probably too late. She asked if he'd canceled it after calling her… or _before_.

He deflected. She smiled. It was insincere.

He suggested an alternative: Frito Layla's. She countered with Stonehouse.

He offered Nacho Mama's. She advocated Petit Valentien.

He proposed Bettie Burgers. Juliet said, "Cache."

Shawn looked her over and—being of a keen intellect when motivated—magnanimously offered to call Cache and see about a table.

Naturally it would necessitate a ninety minute wait at this point on a Friday night, but Juliet was all for it, because she intended to put him to the test in this small way.

He grumbled about having to go home and find a tie and a proper shirt, but she drove him to his place anyway. _She_ looked rather chic if she did say so herself, because although she was pretty sure they wouldn't actually be dining at Cache, she figured she might as well try out her new midnight blue dress and heels.

Waiting in the bar at the restaurant, Shawn… well, Shawn didn't wait with any skill or panache. Juliet asked him several times to settle down, to stop playing with the cocktail olives, to stop building a fort out of toothpicks, and to stop fussing with his tie. She _also_ asked him to stop behaving like a sulky child the way he had on their 'retreat' months earlier, and made the observation that as a man in his mid-thirties in a committed relationship, he really should be able to make a simple effort to spend a little quiet time having drinks with his girlfriend while they waited for their table.

In response, unsurprisingly, he made jokes.

When the maitre d' finally summoned them, Shawn sighed as if _this_ was when the real torture would begin. Juliet told the immaculate and surprised man with the menus to never mind, because they were leaving.

Shawn had to race to keep up with her, and in the parking lot she unloaded on him, never letting him get a word in edgewise to defend, deflect or defuse.

She couldn't remember everything she said, but she knew she covered a lot of ground, from how he belittled her during the Thane Woodson case, to how he forced her father back into her life despite her repeated objections, to how he bandied about details of their intimate life on the reality show; to how he almost always found a reason to go where he wanted to go instead of where she wanted to go, or how he behaved like a sullen teenager if they did do something of her choosing, to how Gus—God love him—was a permanent fixture in their socialization. She knew she made it clear that he made her feel as if she was just background, not an equal, as he spun his merry tales of manipulation and deceit.

Of course he protested. And of course he did love her. She knew he did; it was never in question. But she wasn't his first love: _he_ was. Gus second. Then her.

She wasn't asking to be in Gus' place; it wasn't as if Shawn treated his best friend any better. It also wasn't worth arguing the diagnosis made by the late Dr. Eliot that Shawn was a narcissist; _anyone_ could see he was.

But she'd hoped that his feelings for her would somehow trump his natural tendency to be… the star of his own world. She'd assumed at first—and then she only hoped—that love would take the edge off his self-absorption.

She'd hoped.

That night at Cache, she quit hoping.

Shawn asked for another chance.

But it wouldn't work. She knew it. Time had to pass and he had to agree to grow up and look beyond himself, and until that happened, she wasn't going to tie herself to him. He would drive her mad, and she already had Carlton for that.

Carlton.

Juliet sighed and kept driving. The scary sky overhead warned her to hurry, and possibly to shut up, but she could only comply half-way.

The point was, Shawn was an ex now. He'd come to the station several times the week after the breakup but she kept their conversations short and out of anyone else's (Carlton's) hearing.

She hadn't been ready to have Carlton deduce that their argument led to the breakup. She hadn't been ready to… to thank him for being her friend in his own abrasive way, telling her so bluntly what she really _really_ needed to hear.

But then he dropped the bomb on her about leaving for six weeks. Whatever order she'd thought was restored to her life was blown apart.

Juliet had always assumed—but would never have spoken aloud—that she and Carlton (despite their squabbling) would always have… whatever it was they had. Over the years, despite whatever was going on in his life or hers, they were a team. He would always need their connection.

She assumed.

... because her ego didn't allow her to consider that she needed him too, even when they _were_ squabbling. Certainly her ego brushed aside the ridiculous idea that she might need her best friend around after breaking up with Shawn, just to _be_ there and solid and real and dependable and all the things which made him Carlton.

So when he said blithely that he was going off to help Hank for six weeks, she was gobsmacked.

He, Carlton "I Never Take Time Off" Lassiter, was taking an unprecedented amount of time off from his beloved job.

Without suitable warning.

To help someone…

Someone who… wasn't _her_.

And he was in a really good mood about it, the bastard.

That meant…

_Now wait_, she told herself for the hundredth time. Hank Mendel was very important to Carlton. He'd clearly been a father figure of sorts and they shared a unique bond. It wasn't like he was running off to help some stranger, or throw his life into upheaval for someone like…

Marlowe.

Juliet swallowed. It still surprised her how much trouble she had about Marlowe.

_His arm tight around Marlowe's shoulders as he stood protectively by her side. _

She'd learned later that this protectiveness was based on only about ten minutes' total contact with the woman, with whom he'd felt connected immediately. Shawn and Gus were at her side dressed as vampires, all three of them staring at Carlton with this pretty woman who seemed perfectly nice and normal and obviously didn't mind Carlton's arm around her—and Juliet was uncomfortable, because she didn't like how it felt to see her partner like that.

She felt the unease washing over her again.

_Were you jealous? _

_No lying now._

Trees whizzed by. She made herself slow the car down.

_Yes. _

_I was jealous._

_And I'm not even going to relive that other memory of seeing him half-undressed at the door to his condo, knowing he'd just been about to make love to HER, and feeling for a white-hot moment that there was no way in hell Marlowe could have him_.

To see Carlton so quickly become attached, to go so far as commit to a relationship with a woman who'd intended to lure him to a place where her brother could drain his blood, a woman who ended up in prison for breaking into a blood bank—she couldn't fathom it.

Although of course she could, because Marlowe was nice and normal and had committed those crimes because she loved her brother. She was lovely too, dammit; Juliet couldn't fault Carlton's taste. (And technically she only committed the second crime, since she couldn't go through with the luring/blood-draining after she actually met Carlton).

It was selfish of her to consider it a blessing that Marlowe went to prison. She had to wonder how she would have handled Carlton's involvement with a woman there in town, someone he could see regularly and talk about casually, inadvertently but constantly reminding Juliet that he had someone now.

That he didn't need _her_. That she wasn't special anymore. That being his partner was all she amounted to.

_You are so screwed up. _

No arguing that point, she thought grimly, because the way she'd felt when Carlton revealed tersely that Marlowe had ended the relationship a while ago was something to be embarrassed about.

Not to mention that since she was with Shawn, it was also something to be puzzled and ashamed of: _it's not cool to have any partner-oriented thoughts while you are with someone else, girl_.

But there Carlton was now, busying himself with getting ready to leave her for six weeks, going to help a friend, happy about it, not groveling, not snarking—just… having a life? Without her? When she needed him? Even though she hadn't told him? Even though he'd have been totally confused and she couldn't have explained exactly what her problem was?

Which brought her back to her real fear: he was in a good mood because he'd figured out they were done as partners; because the things she said during their argument had pushed him to the edge, because Hank's request gave him an opportunity he intended to mine fully to see what he really wanted out of his life, and it might not be the SBPD, and it might not be her at his side.

Juliet felt like some internal tornado was ripping through her system. She didn't know what to focus on, what to try to make sense of first.

All she knew for sure was that he'd been gone a month now. Their communication had been minimal, texts mostly. She'd called him about a case once but he was meeting with a vet about one of Hank's horses, and when he called her back she was out in the field and couldn't talk. The rest of it was handled via text and she felt unduly deprived.

In fact, she felt… completely out of sorts all month long. Carlton not being at his desk or with her in the car—simply being out of reach and doing his own thing _without her_—was just wrong.

Shawn's absence from her life—if one could call daily texts and messages and frequent drop-bys being an absence—wasn't nearly as sharp and hurtful as Carlton's absence. He was more a nuisance than anything else, and she'd taken to asking Buzz to head him off at the pass long enough to give her getaway time.

_You are SO screwed up._

"I know," she said aloud. "That's why I'm going to see Carlton. To get myself straight."

There was a crack of thunder above her little Bug—_that_ _was celestial approval, right?_—and as if the reverberation alone had opened the heavens, the rain began to fall with tremendous force, shaking the car and turning the road to a river within minutes.

Juliet pushed on, praying her mechanical companion would get her another half mile to where the GPS said she would find Hank's driveway, which turned out to be all mud by the time she reached it.

Lightning, thunder, rain, wind—she made the turn almost blindly, and the car slid straight across the muddy drive and off into the grass, which was already more like a lake.

Startled and terrified, she sat for a minute catching her breath. She could make out the farmhouse in the distance, a two-story gabled structure which might have had a porch, but the rain was falling too hard for her to be sure.

Get out? Stay in? She'd be sloshing through the grassy lake if she got out, but it was obviously her only option, because the Bug sure wasn't moving.

At least it wasn't _sinking_.

Crap. _Just get out_, she told herself.

Forcing the door open against the wind, she stepped out into muddy water, the rain already obscuring her vision and shockingly cold against her bare arms.

Instantly drenched, she got the door closed again and braced herself against the hood while she made her way around the vehicle and closer to the road.

It was impossible to see, the rain was so hard, but when she lifted her head to figure out exactly where the driveway was, she saw something coming toward her.

Purposefully, down the drive from the house.

Tall, wrapped in a long green raincoat, and unmistakably Carlton.

A wave of _I'm-so-glad-to-see-him_ overtook her, and for a moment she was fully aware that her trembling wasn't entirely from the cold rain.

"Juliet!" he shouted. "Stay where you are!"

But she was so close to the "dry" ground now, and so near to being with him, that she pushed on—and promptly stepped into a watery depression which the mud and grass and frickin' storm had concealed.

With a shriek she pitched forward, but Carlton, impossibly, was already there and lifting her off the road before she knew she'd hit it.

"Juliet," he said urgently, hoisting her soggy self into his arms. "I told you not to move, dammit."

His blazing eyes were the bluest they'd ever been, maybe bluer because of the full and mostly silver beard he now had, maybe because of the gray force of the storm raging around them.

But in his arms, cradled against his chest as the rain fell, Juliet felt warm and safe and protected instead of stupidly soaked and muddy and chilled.

"Juliet," he said again more gently. "You okay?"

_Oh, God._

_He's calling me Juliet._

_And he's looking at me with those eyes… those eyes which hold a thousand secrets and every shade of blue there is._

She managed to say shakily that she was all right, nothing broken, and he turned to carry her back toward the house as if she were some sort of fragile treasure.

She was suddenly terrified. She was twice as gobsmacked as the day he told her about leaving for six weeks, and yet suddenly many, _many_ things were perfectly crystal clear.

_Dammit. _

_For the love of all that is holy, DAMMIT._

_I'm in love with the son of a bitch._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . . **

**. . .**

She didn't need to be carried, but she didn't want to be set away from him either. Being this close to Carlton was _just fine_.

She refrained from whimpering when he set her down gently on the porch, already missing the connection which she'd only just learned was crucial to her.

He opened the front door and she was barely inside before he urged her to step out of her sodden, muddy shoes.

He pointed to the dark wood staircase. "Go on. If you hit the master bedroom first you can find something of Miss Annie's to borrow. Bring your wet stuff down and we'll get it washed and dried."

Next thing she knew, she was at the top of the stairs in a brightly-papered hallway, disoriented and shivering, but the bathroom was in sight so she dashed in for a warm, cleansing shower.

_Wash fast, get downstairs to him faster. _

No taking time to study the décor or wonder about _his_ showers there. No. No time at all. Dammit. Time was of the essence and she wasn't sure why except that it had a lot to do with wanting to be in the same room with him again. No, _needing_ to be in the same room with him again.

Turning off the water with a savage twist, she realized she should have gotten the fresh clothes _first_. She dried herself off and wrapped up in a towel and stepped back into the hall—the coast was clear, _and that was a shame too_.

The first bedroom she came to was obviously Carlton's, and she stood near the bed, shivering in a different way.

_It's true_, she thought, surveying the little signs of his occupancy—the indentation in the pillow, the slightly mussed dark blue coverlet, the closet door ajar, the faint scent of him all around.

_It's true. I'm terrified but I _am_ in the right place._

Turning to leave before she could give in to the urge to lie naked on his bed, she caught sight of a long-sleeved white tee hanging on the back of the door.

There was no chance she wasn't wearing it, no chance at all, because it was his.

Dropping the towel, she pulled the tee over her head and felt its soft warmth against her bare skin, and again she knew she was in the right place—surrounded by Carlton.

However, she had enough sense to accept she'd better get her lower half covered with something of Miss Annie's, not his, and went back into the hall, using the towel to blot at her hair.

Carlton was at the top of the stairs.

His damnably blue eyes were huge as he took in the sight of her, bare-legged and wearing his t-shirt and coming out of his bedroom.

Juliet mumbled something about getting turned around and grabbing the first garment she could see, and Carlton mumbled something about her wet clothes, so she hurried to collect them from the bath and he hurried them away down the stairs again, and it took a while for her to catch her breath and focus enough to make it to the master bedroom.

With her hair finger-combed into shape, and wearing a pair of soft violet flannel pants from Miss Annie's closet—but still in the t-shirt because no way was she giving that up now—she padded down the stairs, wondering how he was dealing with her wet underthings in addition to the soaked jeans and pullover.

_It's fair. I'm wearing his tee, he's handling my undies._

Shivering yet _again_ for reasons unrelated to cold, she followed her nose to the kitchen.

Carlton turned from the stove, where he was stirring some kind of stew. "Coffee's on, if you want some."

She picked up one of the mugs in front of the coffee pot and filled it with heavenly elixir; Carlton could make a mean cuppa and she'd missed that too over the past month.

"I didn't start your clothes. Thought you… um… might be particular about their care."

Juliet glanced at him; he was still stirring the stew but she detected a faint tinge of red at his neck. She really liked the beard, and the way his longer hair curled. The black and silver seemed to amplify the blue of his eyes… or maybe it was the soft gray of his Henley shirt, the top button undone and...

She wanted to touch him.

A lot.

Instead, she sipped coffee, set the mug down, and asked where the washer and dryer were. He pointed to an alcove at the back of the kitchen, a place which would be sunny and bright on any other day. Miss Annie apparently liked bright.

When Juliet returned to the kitchen proper, slightly more composed, there were two bowls of aromatic beef stew on the table with rolls, and he brought her coffee over as soon as she sat down.

He sat across from her, all familiar lanky grace, and sipped from his own mug. "Do you need anything from the car?"

_A clue? _

"Just my phone, but that can wait. The keys are in the ignition, though."

He jerked his head toward the window, beyond which the rain continued to fall in torrents. "Anyone who can get that car out of the swamp is entitled to it."

Juliet had to agree. "Be fun to watch, too."

He grinned, and she asked him about his stay so far, because she did want to know what he'd been doing while she missed him, in addition to needing a moment or ten to get herself together.

Carlton told her about the farm, and mending fences, mowing grass, fixing shutters and patching the driveway—which had potholes he'd managed to avoid dropping her in as he carried her up to the house—and also feeding (and riding) the horses; he said he'd kept busy out here in the quiet green isolation and he liked it and didn't miss the police station like he thought he would.

She ignored how much that scared her.

She also ignored the images in her head of Carlton working in the sun, riding the horses… ignored the little imaginings of herself just out of sight but never far away as he worked on their home…

_Their home? Girl. Come back now._

Hank and Miss Annie had checked in a few times and reported their own successful journeys down under, and when Carlton was done talking and she'd run out of questions to ask in order to have an excuse to hear the semi-smoky voice she'd been deprived of all these weeks, he set his mug down and looked at her the way he looked at suspects he was about to skewer in interrogation.

Thank God the phone rang from its perch on the wall, and Carlton got up to answer it.

While he talked to someone about fencing supplies, she studied him again. He looked good—too good—and had picked up a tan; she could see faint freckles dusting his cheeks. The Henley was thin and outlined his lean body and once again she wanted to _touch_ him.

_But why? You've worked closely with him for years without wanting to maul him. Why now?_

Because in the past month she'd missed his… person-ness; who he was in mind and voice and action. But _seeing_ him now, in this element, bearded and out of the suit and tie and so undeniably male, she was being whumped with his considerable physical appeal, an appeal which only strengthened the emotional hold he—however unknowingly—had over her.

Double whammy.

_So screwed._

He ended his conversation and returned to the table, explaining it was a friend of Hank's who was coming to work on another section of fence next week.

Then he gave her that look again. The steely blue _I will get my answers_ look.

Hoping to stall, she volunteered that he made really good stew. It was unsurprising; the few times she'd been treated to his cooking, he'd impressed her. He liked simple dishes, but he prepared them with care and they were always savory.

Allowing the momentary distraction, he said thanks and broke a roll in half, and after another considering glance at her, asked calmly, "So what washes you up on my shore, O'Hara?"

_Common sense? Finally?_

"I wanted to talk to you," she said instead. _Don't call me O'Hara now._

Carlton frowned. "About what?"

"I mean, I… I just wanted to _talk_ to you."

Still he frowned, and she knew he was genuinely puzzled. "Long way to come for a chat."

She swallowed. "I missed you."

Rain hit the windows to her left, and jagged lightning flashed brighter than the overhead lights.

He was very still. Nobody could do _still_ like Carlton Lassiter. "The last two weeks before I left, you were barely talking to me."

"I had issues," she admitted. "Some unrelated to you."

"Some weren't."

"Most were. I broke up with Shawn, you know. After you and I had our spat."

Carlton drew back a little, surprised.

She rushed on, "It was long overdue. I think the reason I was so angry when we argued is that I knew you were right and I was spinning my wheels with him and that night it all just came together for me."

He didn't ask why she hadn't told him.

"You blamed me." His voice was quiet. Flat.

"No. No, I was glad I'd done it. But then you blindsided me by saying you were taking off and I got scared, and that made me mad too."

Carlton searched her face as if she were totally inexplicable to him. Which she probably was. "Juliet," he said, and she was so glad he wasn't using her last name this time, "what the hell were you scared about? And why are you _here_?"

"I told you." She sipped coffee, but knew he noticed her hands trembling. "I missed you and I wanted to talk to you. So I got in the car this morning and just started driving."

He stared at her so long, and so intently, that another involuntary shiver overtook her. "You drove nearly two hours on a whim. On your day off. To see _me_."

_Please catch up with me. Don't make me spell this out. It's still so new despite being so obvious and I need you to get there by yourself._

"You're my BFF." She said with a smile.

Carlton did not smile back.

All at once she felt vaguely ill. This wasn't going to work. He was an impenetrable fort and she was an idiot for thinking she could breach his internal security. Still, she held his gaze even as her own face grew dangerously warm.

He just kept … evaluating her.

_Jerk_, she thought bitterly, and didn't mean it. It was embarrassment thinking and she knew it and she hated herself for being a coward.

She picked up the mug again. "You know what? Never mind. I'll just stay here and drink coffee until my clothes are ready."

One dark brow quirked upward. "You can drink coffee until your clothes are ready but you're not going anywhere in that Bug."

"I'm sure you can pull me out. Bugs don't weigh much and it's not like it's quicksand out there."

"Even if the rain stops right this second, I'm not pulling you out."

His voice had an edge, and Juliet tried to figure out that very particular shade of darkening blue in his eyes.

"Why not? Surely Hank's got some equipment you can use. Rope, or a—"

"I'm not pulling you out until you tell me why you came up here."

_Oh, you_…

She didn't hide the irritation she felt. "Then I'll call a tow truck."

"Your phone's in your car."

"I'll use yours," she said, even more annoyed.

"Nope." He was smug, and she wanted to slap him a little. "Spill it, O'Hara."

"Stop calling me that," she snapped. "I have a first name and you've known me nearly seven years. Use it."

He blinked, losing his smug expression. "I… just tell me why you're here."

"You heard me the first two times." She stood up, filled with a sudden and immediate urge to flee. "This was a stupid idea. I'm going to get a pair of Miss Annie's shoes and then I'm leaving. Maybe if you can find an iota of courtesy you'll loan me an umbrella."

She had no idea what she was saying: walk out? In the pouring rain? Or make it to the Bug and sit inside sulking until the sun came out and the swamp dried up and… _you're an_ _idiot_.

Didn't matter anyway; Carlton was too fast. He cut her off and hemmed her in against the wall.

"Hey," he growled. "I'm trying to understand why you're here because I'm the last person anyone drives twenty minutes for, let alone two hours. You broke up with Spencer; I'm glad to hear it. But you were pissed off for two solid weeks and that wasn't all about him. I need to understand things because when I don't understand things I get crabby and people like me even less. So why are you here, _Juliet_? Make me understand."

She could have taken any number of actions to escape him, from kneeing him in the groin to punching him in the gut. She could have used words to spin some Shawn-quality lie about partnerships and clearing the air and some other crap.

But instead she breathed him in, relishing the heat of his much-too-close body. She looked into those crystal blue eyes and thought miserably that she really did love the bastard, and before she knew it, she'd reached up between them to trace a gentle line across his mouth with her fingertips.

Carlton stopped breathing.

She might have, too.

But he didn't move, so she stroked his beard and followed the line of his cheekbone up, still gentle, completely mesmerized by touching his warm skin.

As her fingers slipped into the wavy hair at his temple, she discovered she was shaking.

He whispered, and it sounded almost anguished, "Why are you here?"

She whispered back, "To make you tell me whether you're coming home."

_Please come home._

"I told you I was." Husky.

Juliet's heart was pounding. "Whether you're coming back to _me_."

"To you."

_God, his eyes are so gorgeous when he's confused, or uncertain, or angry, or pleased, or…_

"To us, Carlton. To our partnership. Our friendship."

The blue gaze flickered. "Juliet..."

They were still whispering. Alone in the house, no one for miles, and impossibly close.

She had never felt as naked under her clothes as she did that moment.

Curving her fingers against his head, she pulled him closer, and closer still, and in the silent house with only the rush of rain as accompaniment, she knew two things: neither of them was breathing, and he was not going to pull back when she kissed him.

His lips were warm as they brushed hers, and he sighed, and they kissed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Taking on the temporary care of Hank Mendel's farm had brought Carlton a few surprises.

First, he wasn't as fit as he thought he was. Sure, he could subdue a perp effectively and nobody ran as fast or as long as he did, but was he in shape for slinging fence lumber, fixing roof tiles and mucking out stalls? Not as much as he would have been twenty years ago, that was certain.

Second, he wasn't prepared for how much he didn't miss the daily grind of police work. He was a cop at heart (he'd profiled the vet, the feed salesman and the mail carrier in his spare time), but he thought he'd miss it more.

_Just proof you needed a break, pal._

Third, he hadn't expected to miss Juliet as much as he did; they'd been apart before. But he'd never been gone from work so long with so little contact between them, so the intensity with which he missed her was probably a combination of that and the niggling feeling he had that something was wrong, and that the something which was wrong would continue to be wrong when he got home.

But he did want to go home. He'd thought up some new angles for old cases, for one thing, and being able to simply see Juliet over at her desk was always an incentive.

Standing at the door sipping coffee as the rain fell, he'd watched with disbelief as the all-too-familiar green Bug made a crazy turn into the driveway and then immediately slid off into the grass where it came to a mud-spattered and somewhat lurching stop in what was now pretty much a lake.

_That cannot be Juliet_, he thought, setting the mug down and grabbing his rain slicker in the same moment.

_That cannot be Juliet up here for no reason, without warning._

He was halfway down the soggy drive when she got out of the car—instantly soaked, but unmistakably Juliet, golden even when drenched in icy rain—and though it was only rain, and only a muddy yard, and nothing to be worried about, he felt like he had to get to her before she could somehow hurt herself. Never mind that she'd have kicked him to hell and back if he said that out loud.

He hoisted her into his arms and she didn't protest, and he held her closer than he needed to—he didn't even need to carry her at all but there he was carrying her—and setting her down again on the porch was unbelievably difficult.

Ten minutes later, she was wearing nothing under his shirt and he was about to swallow his whole head from shock and desire and then he was holding her bra and panties in his bare hands and he could not cope. He could not cope.

_Slug of whiskey, back to the stew, cannot cope._

Then she said she'd broken up with Spencer, words he'd only ever dreamed of hearing. And since six weeks had passed since their breakup, then it must be real and permanent.

He had no idea what any of this meant, or why she was so hesitant and vague about why she was there, except surely it could only mean she wanted to tell him in person that for some reason only a woman would understand but which would of course come back to being his fault, she was ending their partnership.

Once that idea was in his brain, he was not about to let her leave without admitting it. He wasn't going to go another two weeks wondering what was waiting for him at home. He would know _now_, dammit, because she owed him that.

She owed him nothing else, but she damned well owed him that.

None of this explained her gentle fingers tracing his lips, or his face, or moving in his hair.

None of this explained the look in her beautiful dark blue eyes, all yearning and hope.

None of it explained him kissing her, feeling her soft warm body molding to his, hearing her anxious breathing as her mouth sought out his repeatedly.

Juliet's arms around him were as tight as his around her. She wasn't kissing him like a woman who wanted to end their partnership.

He couldn't cope.

But he could kiss her.

Yes. That he could do.

At least until his question-asking mind started jabbing at him, sharper and sharper despite the ever-growing arousal he felt for the lovely and pliant creature in his arms.

He jerked away abruptly, leaving her wide-eyed and anxious, and took two… no, three… steps backward.

"Carlton," she whispered.

He drew in a deep and jagged breath. "Whatever you came here to say, say it."

Juliet stayed by the wall, trembling. "I just did."

_She can't mean that. She can't mean what I want her to mean._

"You didn't come here to end our partnership?"

She shivered in her—_his_—tee. "No, I came to fight for it."

Carlton's tension abated somewhat, but lingered enough to keep him safely away from her. "You don't fight fair."

Her smile was faint. "Sorry."

"How are we supposed to pretend this didn't happen?" Because of course she would want to pretend it hadn't happened. She was talking about partnership, not… couple-ship.

Worry flashed across her face for a moment. "I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."

Now it was Carlton who shivered.

"Carlton, sometimes life throws us a thunderstorm to teach us what we need to know." She sounded surer now.

But he was sure too: this was an aberration. All partners dealt with them occasionally. "What do I need to know? We're partners. Friends."

Slowly, she shook her head. "We're more."

"Juliet."

"We're more, Carlton. And you knew it before we kissed."

He flushed, and took another step back. "What I knew had nothing to do with what you knew, and no offense, but you didn't know anything. You were with Spencer."

She took a step closer, her eyes shining. "I was. And before him I was with Declan Rand, and before that I was with Cameron Luntz and a long time ago I was with Scott Seaver. They don't matter. They prepared me for the real thing, that's all. You."

_The real thing? _

_Me?_

Carlton took another step back, almost to the counter. "And you've thought this how long exactly? Ten minutes? An hour?" He said it harshly, because harsh would snap her out of it.

Juliet was unfazed… and advanced another step. "Since before I met you. I just needed six years, Marlowe, a fight about an eye roll and a trip to Cache to bring it all into focus." She glanced at the rain-dotted window. "When I got in the car this morning the only thing I knew for sure was that I had to get to you, because I'd been without you too long. I needed to see you. I needed to talk to you. I needed to be with you."

Her growing confidence didn't relax him at all.

"What you're describing, Juliet," he said levelly, "is how I feel every morning before work." He felt a flicker of satisfaction at how this stilled her. "How I've felt every morning for the last few years. Even while I was with Marlowe, getting to work to see _you_ was the highlight of my day. I'm way ahead of ya, see. So I'm not impressed that you've just _now_ discovered something which, for all you know, will pass sooner than you can—"

Juliet crossed the room and shut him up with a kiss, her hands to his face to pull him down to meet her, and he couldn't remember what he was going to say.

His arms were around her instantly, because his body wasn't arguing with her even though his mind wanted to keep fighting pure instinct, and she pressed to him as if she intended to always remain thus.

Which was all right with him.

"It's not going to pass," she said breathlessly against his throat. "This is not going to pass."

Somehow his hands slid up under the shirt to caress her bare back, and when she trembled this time it was from arousal, something to which he could relate.

So intoxicating, her kisses. Her lips so hungry and sweet and her tongue so tantalizing. She could probably kill him effortlessly just by kissing him, although he'd be dead sooner if he let his hands wander under the shirt from her back to her bare breasts...

But… for his mind was full of 'buts' even on a good day… but still he pushed her away from him, disentangling and moving to the door as if he himself might flee out into the storm.

"I need a minute." He ran his hands through his hair, restless and unsettled. "Give me a minute to think."

"You should take that minute to _feel_." Juliet remained where she was, but she might as well have been wrapped around him.

"What I feel," he began. Cleared his throat. Started over. "What I _feel_ is that if I kiss you again, we're starting down a road which has no exits. Not for me… except the biggest one of all."

All or nothing. This was an all-or-nothing woman. _The_ woman.

Juliet smiled gently. "It's not a road." She sounded _so certain_. "It's a rainbow, Carlton. And you're the pot of gold at the end of it. At least that's how you look to me."

"You don't know anything," he tried again. "Juliet—"

"Do you think I would ever let anyone hurt you?"

He shook his head.

"Do you think _I_ would ever knowingly hurt you?"

_Knowingly_? He shook his head once more.

"Do you think that after Shawn, I might have a pretty good idea of what I want in a man?"

_Well_… "I think you might know what you _don't_ want."

Another gentle smile. "Touché. Do you love me, Carlton?"

His heart somersaulted.

"Because I love _you_."

Rain. Thunder. Silence.

"How," he breathed. "How can you know?"

Somehow her voice was so clear and sweet over all the noise in his head and heart.

"Because I'm fighting for you, in someone else's clothes, in someone else's house, and I wouldn't be anyplace else right now than trying to talk you into accepting that I came here for you. For us."

Carlton looked at his blue-eyed beautiful partner and friend and felt himself calming. Slowly.

Juliet held his gaze, her hands in fists at her side, but gradually she relaxed her hands and simply stood, waiting.

"I'm gonna…" He took a breath. "I'm gonna go upstairs and lie down for awhile. If you decide to come up, turn the stove off first."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet almost didn't want to take off his shirt. She wanted to make love to him while wrapped in his clothes.

But Carlton seemed to want her to be naked with him, and she wanted that too.

Up here in his rapidly-warming bed, the rain on the roof was louder, but the roar was steady and matched the thunder of the blood coursing through her system.

Carlton's body was lean and hard, and she loved touching him. Once she'd kissed his chest and felt his heartbeat under her lips, it was as if her mind opened a lot of doors to memories of times they'd touched casually, accidentally; dreams she'd had (and repressed immediately) of being with him. Remembrances of all the times two people who worked together closely every day had come into physical contact, which meant nothing to the conscious mind but fueled the damnably persistent and ruthlessly sneaky imagination.

He was heat and he was animal, and every touch of his hand to her skin, anywhere, set a little blaze. His mouth explored her breasts and her stomach and her thighs and everything else, and his hands were everywhere, marking and owning her.

His beard was tantalizingly rough and sensual against her body, and she knew he knew it, for the gleam in those crystal blue eyes was fierce when he looked up from between her legs. She was nearly blind from pleasure at that point, but she could see those eyes. Always those eyes.

Wrapped around him later, holding him to her, arching up to meet his thrusts, the only storm was within their union. Outside, Mother Nature retreated. In Carlton's bed, there was no room for anything but the two of them making love.

At last.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She hadn't known this would happen. Not when she got in the car that morning.

But with their first kiss, hemmed in against the wall, it all became so clear. So obvious.

She traced lines across his chest, spelling out her name from shoulder to shoulder. Carlton sighed, his arm underneath her and curving up around her waist. "I marked you," she said. "Did you feel it?"

"I felt everything."

Now she touched his beard, caressing the bare skin of his throat below and traveling over to his earlobes, which made him smile. "It's okay to love me, you know."

"Glad to hear it." His voice was dry. "Little late to give permission."

But she knew he would always need a little convincing about her intentions. "And I'm not going to change my mind."

"Glad to hear that too."

"You know why?"

Carlton looked at her, the ocean of his eyes calm for once. "Why?"

"Because I can't change my heart."

He brought one lean graceful hand up to caress her face, and drew her to him for a kiss. "You changed your heart about Spencer."

Juliet kissed him again. "You changed yours about Victoria. And Marlowe."

"They didn't have my heart. Victoria got tired of it and Marlowe decided she didn't want it."

_Foolish Victoria, foolish Marlowe._

"I don't really think Shawn had my heart either. At least not the whole thing. And he didn't take very good care of what I did give him. But you'll take care of it, won't you?"

The blue was so warm, somehow. Juliet felt flushed all over again.

"You've taken care of me for six years," she went on unsteadily. "I trust you more than I trust anyone else in my life."

Carlton shook his head. "You've taken care of yourself more than you let me take care of you."

"Knowing you were always there to catch me made it easier for me to stand on my own. That's why having you gone this past month was so scary. I just… I just don't want to do without you, Carlton. I don't want to do anything without you."

He pulled her closer and nuzzled her temple. "Think of all the times you told me to go home and soak my head. Or all the times you almost threw coffee at me because I was in such a foul mood. Or how many times you gave _me_ the eye roll because I was being an ass about a case or about Spencer or about… hell, about anything."

Juliet pulled back and frowned at him. "What about them?"

He sighed, but there was amusement behind it.

"None of that's going to change. I'm still going to do all that because you're still going to be an ass in a foul mood on a regular basis."

Now he laughed. "I can see why you want me."

She climbed atop him, letting her breasts brush his chest and enjoying the involuntary shudder of appreciation rippling through his body. "I do want you. And now that I've _had_ you," she added meaningfully, "I mean to have you _again_. And again."

"And again," he echoed, sliding his hands down her back to her hips and anchoring her where they were warmest and closest. "And again."

And again.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet stayed until Sunday night.

They used Hank's sturdy pickup to pull the Bug out of the muddy yard on Sunday morning, when the sun was out and the world was green and new.

Carlton didn't do any chores over the weekend except tend to the horses, and he and Juliet went for a ride that afternoon. He didn't know what he loved more, galloping across the meadow or seeing her doing the same at his side, her golden hair in tangles and her face glowing.

Sometime between the ride and a leisurely few hours in bed, he finally said the words she already knew: that he loved her.

She wept anyway, but only a little, and so did he, but less, because she kissed him then and just like always, every thought flew from his fried mind other than the necessity of being with her.

From Monday to Friday he worked the farm in a daze. They talked on the phone and texted throughout the day and Juliet was not changing her mind about him. About them.

She came back Friday night with the happy news that she'd scored Monday off, and they spent another weekend making love and being together and slowly, slowly, Carlton began to believe from the inside out that this was real.

This was real, and she was his.

It was so strange, and so wonderful, and only an idiot would resist, and while he'd been an idiot about many things in his life, this wasn't going to be one of those things.

Hank and Miss Annie returned the following Saturday, and Hank wasn't at all fazed by seeing Juliet at Carlton's side, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

They had stories to tell and pictures to show and Carlton was bemused and Juliet was still at his side and when he went back to his condo on Sunday morning, Juliet met him there and took him to bed again.

His first week at work was fine and his second week was fine and Juliet was still his and they spent enormous amounts of time together outside of work, much of it in bed but much of it just learning each other from top to bottom in all things.

And then six months were gone, and she was still his. Spencer had found another girl and Chief Vick was tolerating her two top detectives being romantically involved, and Juliet still loved him.

And then one night over dinner at Cache, she asked him to marry her. He said yes, please, and she laughed, and it was all still real.

He decided this was his 'new normal': happy, with Juliet.

It was much, much better than the old normal: happy to be anywhere _near_ Juliet.

When he thought about it too much she simply kissed him senseless.

He liked that about her.

So on one warm summer's day up at Hank's farm, they married.

It turned out to be the best 'new normal' of all.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**E N D**


End file.
